


a chain so fine and lovely

by wanderlove



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Prequel Trilogy, Star Wars: The Clone Wars (2008) - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Arranged Marriage, Bottom Obi-Wan Kenobi, Extremely Dubious Consent, F/M, M/M, Miscommunication, Multi, Pining, Slavery, sorta? its complicated
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-02
Updated: 2020-08-24
Packaged: 2021-03-06 04:15:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 14,043
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25677196
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wanderlove/pseuds/wanderlove
Summary: Chaos threatens to engulf the Galaxy as Outer Rim Warlord Anakin Skywalker continues his unstoppable conquest of planets near and far. Desperate to save their way of life, the people of Jedha offer Skywalker a trade: a peaceful alliance in exchange for the life-long loyalty and servitude of one of their prized Jedi Knights, Obi-Wan Kenobi.Now Obi-Wan must carve out his place on a strange, new planet and in a strange, new culture, all while fighting his growing attraction to Skywalker and his wife, Padmé Amidala.
Relationships: Obi-Wan Kenobi/Anakin Skywalker, Padmé Amidala/Anakin Skywalker, Padmé Amidala/Obi-Wan Kenobi, Padmé Amidala/Obi-Wan Kenobi/Anakin Skywalker
Comments: 56
Kudos: 359





	1. Prologue: Obi-Wan

**Author's Note:**

> hello, all! trying out something new--a sort of weird high-fantasy, science-fiction, bodice-ripper hybrid, because there is not nearly enough of that in the Star Wars fandom, lol. There'll be a short prologue and three chapters total: each one from a different character's perspective as we build Obi-Wan, Anakin, and Padmé's relationship. 
> 
> Trigger warning: sexual slavery and dubious consent, see endnote for details. 
> 
> Enjoy!

They dress him in gold and pretend not to notice his tears.

Obi-Wan knows they’re just trying to be kind, but he can’t help but hate them a little for it. Wearing gold is one of the greatest moments in a Jedi’s life—a joyful proclamation that you have found your True Bond and they have found you and never again will you be parted. It is not one that Obi-Wan will ever truly get to experience, so this is their gift to him: to recreate the Bonding Ceremony as best as possible, so that he can carry these memories with him to his new home. But for all their good intentions, he feels as if they are only making a mockery of the tradition, forever tarnishing his memory of gold silk, delicate golden jewelry, and richly scented perfumes. How can they stand this pantomime when they all know perfectly well what Obi-Wan will be used for? It is no Bond, let alone a True Bond, and he _hates_ them for pretending otherwise.

There’s a soft rap at the door and Obi-Wan hastily wipes the tears from his eyes—he is a Jedi Knight and he has made his choice, for the good of his people. He will not falter now. Or at least, he will not let anyone see him falter. His attendants pause in their ministrations, allowing him the precious seconds necessary to compose himself.

“Come in,” he says, once his voice is steady. Mace Windu, grandmaster of Jedha's ruling Council, enters the room, his eyes full of pity as they rove over Obi-Wan. He sits up straighter and lifts his chin. “Yes?”

“I have a delivery,” Mace says, quietly, slowly. He gestures to the large velvet box in his arms, which Obi-Wan eyes warily. “Skywalker learned of the Bond ceremony. How, I do not know. But he purchased a Bond gift for you and was quite insistent that you wear it.”

“Mmm, of course. Very well then, let’s see it.”

Mace hesitates only a moment longer, then reluctantly flips open the jewelry case. One of Obi-Wan’s attendants drops the comb in her hands, the sound as loud as an explosion in the suddenly silent room.

Nestled in the black velvet of the box is a thick gold necklace, its surface finely carved with intricate, geometric shapes and studded periodically with heavy, rough cut sapphires that match Obi-Wan’s eyes. A few dangling tassels of gold and gems line the lower edge and a heavy clasp marks the back.

Obi-Wan stares in horror—it’s hideous.

More than that, it’s a terrible insult, though he does not think it was intentional—from his few interactions with Skywalker, the man does not seem to be one who places much value in the subtle messages that could be delivered by the cut of a cloth or piece of jewelry. Besides, Obi-Wan gets the sense that if Skywalker actually wanted to insult him, he’d say it, straight to his face and without hesitation. So, no, Obi-Wan doesn’t think Skywalker really understands Jedi customs, but it’s still a gut punch.

The gift of jewelry was important for Bond partners—but they were always thin, gold chains, the perfect mix of fragility and strength meant to represent both the power and ephemeral nature of such bonds. A gift to let you know that your partner loved you deeply and truly—enough to let you go and break the chain, if that’s what it came to.

_This_ is no Bond gift. _This_ is a collar.

“You don’t have to wear it, I’m sure we can find some excuse—”

“No,” Obi-Wan sighs heavily, cutting Mace off before he can finish his thought and tempt Obi-Wan. “No, we cannot risk angering him. It looks...expensive and I’m sure he went through a great deal of trouble to procure it last minute like this.”

“But everyone will think—”

“Leave us,” Obi-Wan interrupts suddenly, sending a warning look to Mace as he cuts his eyes over to his attendants. They curtsey and bow, scurrying away. Obi-Wan waits until the door has swung shut behind them—he has little hope they’re not out there, eavesdropping away, but the illusion of privacy is nice. “Think what, Mace? That I’m a slave? A concubine, a warlord’s trophy?” Obi-Wan says dryly, raising an eyebrow. “They’re saying it anyways.”

“You are the best and brightest of us,” Mace continues, anger and frustration leaking into his voice. “You shouldn’t have to do this.”

“I won’t pretend that this is what I would willingly choose for myself, if there was any other option. But he doesn’t seem like he will be a terrible lover.”

“Obi-Wan—”

“He is kind enough,” Obi-Wan continues lightly. “He’s come by once or twice to talk with me as I minded the younglings.”

“He doesn’t speak our language! And you can’t speak Huttese or Nubian, the only two languages he does know.”

“Well, I didn’t say he was great conversationalist, only that he was kind,” Obi-Wan replies with a shrug. “The younglings adored him at any rate and they’re usually excellent judges of character. And I admit that I find him attractive. Sharing his bed will hardly be a hardship—I only worry of what his wife will think when we return to Naboo. From all of Qui-Gon’s stories of tutoring the young princesses, I get the sense that Padmé Amidala is not someone who will tolerate infidelity lightly.” 

“I am so very glad that Qui-Gon is not here to see this,” Mace says, hanging his head. “It would break his heart to see you giving up all your hopes and dreams like this. When he died, he asked me to watch over you and I can’t help feeling like I’ve failed, horribly.”

“Mace, no, don’t. Whatever else happens, please know that this my decision and I made it willingly. It is a sacrifice, yes. But to guarantee that Jedha will remain untouched by Skywalker’s armies? I would make this sacrifice a thousand times over.” He pauses, inhales, then fixes a brittle smile upon his face. “Which is also why it is important that you and everyone else is on their best behavior tonight—my sacrifice will mean nothing if we anger or insult him. We are a peaceful people; he could easily take what he wanted by force. We are fortunate that was interested enough in my body and my consent to offer an alliance instead. Let’s not waste the opportunity.”

Mace sighs, his face crumpling.

“How are you already so wise? I still remember when you used to have to hold onto Qui-Gon’s finger as you toddled around the Temple, learning how to walk.” An equally brittle smile stretches across his face. “Perhaps he will tire of you in time and give you leave to seek other companionship—he’s young and I’m sure his attention will wander.”

“Perhaps,” Obi-Wan agrees neutrally, though inside he is doubtful. In total, he has spent less than a full rotation in Skywalker’s company, but even he can tell that the young warlord is possessive to the extreme—even if he tired of Obi-Wan’s company, he very much doubts Skywalker would ever allow another to even look at what he considers his. “Come now, help me get this monstrosity on and then go and warn the others—we can’t have anyone gawking at the alliance ceremony tonight.”

“Of course, Obi-Wan,” Mace says as he lifts the necklace out of its case and positions it to rest against Obi-Wan’s collar. It’s even heavier than it looks, cold against his bare skin. Mace fiddles with the clasp for a moment longer and Obi-Wan refuses to look at himself in the mirror.

The snick of the clasp sliding close seems deafening to Obi-Wan, like that of a strong and unbreakable lock bolting shut forevermore.


	2. Chapter I: Padmé

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Would like to reiterate here, as noted in the tags and in previous chapter notes: herein lies dub con. It's kinda subtle because we're looking at it from Padmé's perspective, but it is definetly there and it will probably trigger anyone who's been in a similar situation, where they felt pressured to say yes to a partner. Turn back now if that squicks you, consent is sexy folks, but this is fanfiction and this story purposely explores something that I would never advocate for in real life. :) 
> 
> Okay on with the show.

“Master Ani has returned!”

Padmé’s head snaps up from her datapad, all thoughts of food, water, and munitions supply chains flying from her head. She stares at C-3PO—the loyal droid that her husband had gifted to her as a constant, physical reminder of his love for her in those long months when they were forced apart. In the distance, she hears the deep sounding of trumpets—Anakin’s ships have been spotted within the confines of Varykino’s vast estate. And if she knows her husband at all and the way he delights in pushing his ship’s engines to the limit, that means that he will be safely back within her arms in only a few short minutes.

She blinks, then rises shakily to her feet, hand braced against the arm of the richly appointed couch of the public sitting room—an extravagant, grand room where she can receive petitioners from all over the Galaxy, rich and poor alike searching for aid from their Empress. Varykino has always been a private residence for Nubian royalty, but with Padmé’s marriage to Anakin, it had also become a very public seat of government for their budding empire. The estate had been a wedding gift from her parents, the Queen and King of Naboo, partially because they loved their youngest daughter and had known how dearly she loved spending summers with her grandmother at Varykino. But, as much as her parents love her, Padmé knows it is mostly because they recognized that their new son-in-law required a palace from which to rule his newly allied or conquered planets and it would benefit their planet greatly if that palace happened to be on Nubian soil. While the Naberrie family had been permitted to keep their royal titles and continue to supervise the day to day running of Naboo, they are now officially vassals of the Skywalker Empire and all vassals must carefully work to curry favor with their Emperor. And so the traditional vacation retreat of Naboo has been carefully remodeled and redecorated to reflect its’ change in status, which has resulted in some of the more grandiose rooms being designated as public rooms for official business. Padmé likes to spend many hours there while Anakin is away—to make herself available for her citizens and to distract herself from the gaping hole in her heart and the black worry in her mind—but they have not had a single visitor today. She cannot take on nearly as much work as she would like these days, what with the midwives’ insistent demands (and of course Ani has hired a small army of midwives, enough so that she cannot ignore their nagging so easily) that she rest, both physically and mentally. Poor Threepio had taken the medical recommendations quite to heart and has worked his circuits to death trying to ensure that there are as few tasks as possible available for Padmé to latch onto—Sabé, her spymaster, and Dormé, her chief handmaiden, had been positively delighted, dying with laughter at Padmé’s put out face.

“Milady—” Dormé says, half in warning, half in exasperation. She knows what is coming, knows that there is little she can do to stop it. In the background, Eirtaé and Saché share a _look._

Padmé picks up her skirt and runs through the cool, marbled hallways of Varykino, the floors still covered in their lighter, summer rugs rather than the plush, fluffy ones that the servants change them out for closer to the winter months. Behind her, she can hear the exclamation of worry from Threepio and the resigned sigh from Dormé, but her mind is already flying ahead, to her destination. 

She careens into the courtyard, as fast her swollen ankles and pudgy body will carry her. She pauses, hands gripped tight around the column of the second-floor loggia, and stares down at the crowd forming below, men and women unloading tribute and supplies from the small speeders used to transport them from the main docks, many kilometers away. Ahoska, Anakin’s _i’yana—_ his second-in-command, heir, daughter-not-by-blood—directs the offloading. Ahsoka steps forward, hefting the boxes onto her shoulders and jokingly prodding the other soldiers into following her example, competing to see which of them can carry the most boxes at once. Fives and Echo are, of course, shamelessly egging her on as Rex and Cody look on in pained amusement. The dust and dirt rise in small plumes as sentients and animals and speeders alike scurry across the open courtyard.

Anakin stands a little ways away, deep in conversation with Varykino’s castellan, the late morning light glinting gold and white over his hair.

Padmé’s knuckles turn white around the column and silently she wills Anakin to turn around, to see her.

As if reading her thoughts, Anakin turns and glances upwards, his face breaking into a beaming smile as bright as the stars. Her heart gives a helpless thump and she waddles quickly down the stairs—he meets her at the bottom, arms wrapping around her and swinging her up and around, as she weighs nothing, as if she hasn’t gained forty pounds since he left all those months ago. 

“You’re back,” she whispers, fiercely, passionately.

He sets her down and bends down, nuzzling his nose to her cheek.

"You're back," Padmé whispers. She runs gentle questing hands across his shoulders, brows furrowed with worry. "Are you okay? Any injuries?"

"None that have not already healed," he replies easily, as if Padmé has not spent the past five months worried sick, plagued by rumors of his capture, death, dismemberment. He pulls back and glances down to her stomach. "And the baby?"

"Hale and hearty, according to all the midwives, and with a strong little kick according to my spleen," Padmé replies grumpily. Anakin throws his head back and laughs. Padmé smiles in victory—he never laughs nearly as much when they're apart, according to Rex and Ahsoka, and the worry lines in his face are always so much deeper when he returns. After a few seconds, he finally quiets and glances back to where the soldiers and servants mill about, too used to these public displays of affection from their master and mistress to have any interest in standing around to gawk. At some point, Threepio had followed her into the courtyard and now stands chattering to Anakin’s astromech R2-D2. Padmé encountered the stubborn, adventurous little astromech on one of her journeys to visit Anakin on a long war campaign in some faraway sector and had immediately invited it to permanently join her household—at that point, Anakin was going through astromechs as if they were cheap candy, not a single one able to keep up with his high-flying, death-defying antics, but she’d had a hunch that Artoo’s plucky determination and spirited personality would make him a much better fit. Plus, watching him and Threepio bicker affectionately had been hilarious, and she hardly wanted to separate what was clearly a match made in the halls of the gods. She has never regretted her decision and now jokes with Anakin that his “metal” children will need to get used to splitting his attention with his actual, flesh-and-blood child.

Anakin turns back to her, his excited look breaking her out of her fond observations of Threepio and Artoo. Her interest is immediately perked, her heart bearing faster as she tries to peer around him. "Is he here? With you?"

"Of course, I wanted you to meet as soon as possible," Anakin replies, face alight with enthusiasm. "Padmé, you'll love him, he's perfect."

“Not all of us fall in love at first sight, as you do,” she warns him, even as she squeezes his hand in excitement. In the early days of their courtship, Anakin had been quite put out that Padmé had not immediately fallen head over heels for him the way he had for her. But Anakin had this ability to just look at someone and _know_ them—the Naboo said he was blessed with Shiraya’s wisdom, the Amatakka said Ar-Amu was guiding his way, Ahsoka and Rex just shook their heads and said Anakin was a lucky bastard whose gut hunches paid off more often than not. Padmé may not have the same, unhesitating connection, her love was slower, more painstakingly won, but she had every faith in her husband’s instincts. Afterall, they had led him to her. “But I cannot wait to get to know him.”

When she had first married Anakin, nearly three years ago, she had always known this was a possibility. The Naboo were very practical when it came to the reality of being a pacifist planet at the edge of the Mid-Rim. Marriage alliances with Outer Rim warlords were a simple fact of life for many generations and polygamy was commonplace for many of those warlords. More importantly, it was central to the traditions of Anakin’s people, the Amatakka. Long enslaved by the Hutts, they celebrated the ability to love and express that love freely—a luxury many of them had been and continued to be denied. A person could and would fall in love many times over the course of their lifetime and consciously refusing to pursue or publicly acknowledge each of those loves was considered yet another form of slavery, “chaining” one’s heart. And while tradition was important to the Naboo, a deep and abiding respect for other sentient life and cultures was the true core of their beliefs. The Nubian diplomats who had negotiated the terms of her betrothal had never even entertained the idea of demanding that Anakin abide by Naboo’s monogamous marriage customs—it would have only been cruel.

But as the years passed and passed and passed without Anakin so much as looking at another sentient, Padmé had begun to believe that Anakin would never take another husband or wife. Until this fortuitous trip to Jedha and the mysterious Obi-Wan Kenobi, who Anakin had waxed poetic about in his few, brief messages. And sure, she had briefly entertained a small flare of jealously, but really, how can she be, when Anakin so clearly worships the ground she walks upon? Besides, Anakin has always made it clear that they would be Padmé’s partner as much as they were Anakin’s, and she has had nearly three years accustom herself to the idea. By the time Anakin had found Obi-Wan, she found that the dominant emotion that fills her is anticipation. She cannot wait to see how the newest member of their marriage fits in—the spaces he will fill, the joys he will bring, the ways he will join Padmé in teasing Anakin.

"Come, you must introduce me,” she whispers fervently.

Anakin nods and whirls around, escorting Padmé back across the courtyard. He keeps his arm extended for Padmé to hold onto and she relishes the feeling of leather and skin under her tiny hands after going so long without. They approach a ginger-haired man, dressed in the traditional cream linen robes of the Jedi, and standing awkwardly apart from the bustle. He is older than Padmé first supposed—perhaps a decade older than Anakin—but his bearing is refined, dignified. He turns and stops abruptly at the sight of Anakin and Padmé, unease passing over his face. His eyes dart to Anakin’s, then to Padmé’s.

“Obi-Wan, this is Padmé Amidala, my wife,” Anakin says in slow, careful Nubian. It is clear the Jedi—Obi-Wan—is struggling to comprehend the language, but understanding must dawn because he immediately bows low at the waist

“Knight Obi-Wan Kenobi, at your service, milady,” he says, his own Nubian halting and roughly accented—he’s clearly been taking lessons with Anakin’s men as he has managed to pick up the atrocious Mando’a accent that many of them exhibit. Padmé steps forward, out of Anakin’s protective shadow, and only shakes her head, gently drawing him upward.

“You needn’t bow to me, Master Jedi,” she says, in what she knows is flawless Coruscanti. Few speak the Jedi tongue, but she knows many of them learn Coruscanti, the most common language used in the Core for trade and inter-planet politics. A flash of surprise, then relief crosses his face, before it is quickly masked by neutrality. “Not when I’ve waited so long to finally meet you. I begged Ani to write with more news of you, but he’s never been one for correspondence I’m afraid.” The journey from Jedha to Naboo is two and half months, one way, but short messages could still be transmitted across satellite way stations, often taking only a few weeks to arrive.

“Ah, thank you, milady,” Obi-Wan says, the words flowing far more easily. He pauses, looking uneasy. “You were expecting me?”

“Of course!” she replies with a laugh. She lays a protective hand across her bulging belly. For the first time, Obi-Wan glances down and seems to register Padmé’s condition. A strange look passes over his face. “I’m the one who told Ani of Jedha’s famed scholar-warriors and their role as tutors for the noble families of the Galaxy—my sister and I were taught for several years by Jedi Master Qui-Gon Jinn. Perhaps you know him?”

“Indeed,” Obi-Wan replies, warmth leaking into his voice. “He was like a father to me and told many stories of the young Princesses of Naboo. I know he greatly valued the time he spent with you and your family.”

“Like a father, truly?” Padmé asks, startled. Obi-Wan nods hesitantly and a renewed sense of surety blooms in her chest. It was her stories of Master Qui-Gon that led Anakin to seek out the Jedi, determined to secure one of the great Knights as a tutor for his child, and then led him to the man he would fall in love with. There was no reason for any of their paths to cross—a fierce Outer Rim warlord, a sheltered Nubian princess, and a peaceful Jedi knight, but here they are, their paths inextricably twined years earlier. It is almost as if Shiraya herself is guiding their path. “Oh, I have so many questions for you, but I know you two must be exhausted by your long journey.”

“Yeah, they should be with the way they kept us up every single night with their moaning and fucking,” Fives hoots in Mando’a. Rex cuffs him on the back of the head, but Fives just laughs maniacally. Most of Anakin’s army is composed of former Mandalorian soldiers and mercenaries, who had chosen to follow him loyally after he freed them from Kamino slavers, but despite that her husband has still never bothered to learn the language. Fives knows this, which is why he’s chosen Mando’a. While Anakin is generally easy-going, overly familiar with the men and dismissive of Core-world sensibilities, he does not tolerate any disrespect to Padmé. And, if the way her husband looks at the Jedi with stars in his eyes is any indication, she imagines that same protection now extends to Obi-Wan. Fives may be an adrenaline-junkie, but even he knows better than to risk Anakin’s wrath with an off-color joke. For his sake, Padmé keeps her face carefully neutral, though inside she’s grinning from ear to ear—she wonders if there is security holo footage from the ships? Now _that_ would be something to help with the lonely nights whenever Anakin is away for months at a time—and oh, Shiraya, the pregnancy really has addled her brain and increased her lusts tenfold.

Her eyes dart over to Obi-Wan, who is pale and mute, staring stiffly at a point just over Padmé’s shoulders. She frowns a little—surely by now he must have gotten used to the ribald jokes and well-meaning hazing of the military? She can’t imagine this is the worst joke Fives has lobbed his way during the long journey from Jedha to Naboo. But, she supposes, the Jedi have always been a very private, insular people and it must pain him to have his Bond put on display in such a way. She touches a gentle hand to his arm.

“Come,” she repeats, shaking her head and offering him a welcoming smile. “Let us go inside. I find standing around rather troublesome these days and I think you might relish some peace and quiet after being trapped in a cramped ship with Fives for ten weeks.”

“Hey!” The rest of Fives’ retort is cut off by the twin, narrowed eyed looks of reprimand from Rex and Ahsoka.

Obi-Wan looks taken aback at the suggestion but follows mutely as Padmé leads the way back inside. After a moment’s consideration, she changes course, away from the public sitting room. Their servants are loyal—Ani has a warm, unpretentious way with the common folk that inspires a rare sort of devotion—but gossip is gossip and Padmé knows that all of Varykino is eager to meet the handsome new Jedi that has stolen their lord’s heart. Obi-Wan already seems so discomfited that she does not want to offer him any other incentive to bite his tongue, such as visibly eavesdropping servants.

Varykino had hundreds upon hundreds of rooms to choose from, of course—and she is sure gossip already abounds, but no servants, apart from her husbands’ droids and her own loyal handmaidens, are allowed in the east wing of the palace.

And, she thinks wickedly, if the conversation goes well, they will be oh-so-conveniently close to the bedroom.

The transition from the main hallway to the east wing is stark—while the underlying architecture is much the same, the public rooms of Varykino contain artwork from all over their growing empire—Twi’leki cloth, Rodian musical instruments, Mon Cala dynamic water sculptures, but the east wing is home exclusively to Nubian and Amatakka decorations that were carefully, lovingly selected so that the curving, swirling lines of the Nubian sculptures beautifully complement the sparse, geometric designs of the Amatakka woven tapestries.

When they finally make it to the heart of the east wing, she sweeps forward and gestures to the low-lying couches and pillows arrayed around the room. Anakin, of course, flops down onto a set of rich, silken pillows without any further ado, while Obi-Wan seems to hesitate, taking his time to decide. Padmé takes a few extra minutes to settle into her favorite couch, frowning a little in discomfort—she loves her child, she does, but she will be very grateful to have him _out_ soon enough so that she can stop feel like a stranger in her own body.

Anakin raises himself up on his forearms and watches her worriedly, but she only shakes her head.

“No need to worry, my love,” she says in Nubian, fondly. “My mother had much the same problems when she was pregnant with Sola and myself.”

“If you’re sure,” he responds, doubtfully. “What do the midwives say?”

“Only that I have gained just a little more weight than they would have expected—it’s nothing terribly unusual, none of them are worried and besides there’s nothing to be done until the little one is out. All they can recommend is plenty of rest and entertainment, to keep me distracted from my state,” Padmé replies. She claps her hands together and switches back to Coruscanti. “Which is why I’m so eager to hear everything. Tell me, how did you two meet?"

Obi-Wan looks distinctly uncomfortable, but Anakin's eyes brighten. He knows only a little Coruscanti, but that knowledge and her tone must tip him off.

"I was touring the Temple at Jedha when I saw him in the garden, teaching the younglings the names of the flowers and trees. He quite enjoys gardens, you know. I fell in love immediately—he was like an angel standing amongst the greenery,” he declares in Nubian.

"Younglings?" She repeats, turning to Obi-Wan expectantly, eager to hear his side of the story. The constant switching from Coruscanti and Nubian is certainly keeping her on her toes, but she relishes the mental exercise.

"Ah, yes. Anakin came to visit me several times while I minded them." When nothing more is coming, she prods again.

"He says you like gardens and flowers?"

"He what?"

"Oh, I'm sorry, do you not?"

"I do, I just didn't realize that he had noticed."

"Ani is much more observant than most people give him credit for," Padmé replies with a shrug. She claps her hand together and gestures to the courtyard garden visible to the side through the wide wall of arches and thin columns. Varykino rarely got chillier than a small nip in the air on winter mornings and many of the rooms were like this, entirely open to the elements. "This is perfect—in my grandmother's day, Varykino was famed far and wide for its gardens, but I'm afraid they've suffered a little since Ani and I took over. Neither of us has much of a green thumb, unfortunately, and hired gardeners can only do so much—plants need love, I think. I’m sure they’ll blossom under your care."

"I—oh. That would very nice indeed,” Obi-Wan’s voice is startled, but the warmest that Padmé has heard since she met the man. She smiles a little in victory— _she_ inspired that.

Anakin pokes her.

"What are you two talking about?" he demands impatiently. "Why is he happy?"

"I offered to let him use Varykino's gardens. He was surprised, happy that you noticed his interest,” Padmé replies in Nubian. They share a conspiratorial smile—Anakin is terrible at seduction, but he’s thoughtful and passionate, and together with Padmé’s deft guidance, she’s sure Obi-Wan doesn’t stand a chance. 

When she turns back to Obi-Wan, his happiness is gone, replaced by consternation.

"I'm sorry, this must be so taxing for you,” he frets, frowning. “To have to constantly switch back and forth and translate. I am trying to learn Nubian, but I'm afraid my studies aren't progressing as quickly as I had hoped. I believe the problem is the Chommelian root syntax—it’s quite different than anything else I’ve ever encountered."

Padmé’s face lights up.

"Indeed—if you trace the linguistic history, you’ll find that Nubian was greatly influenced by our physical proximity with the Outer Rim,” she explains, always eager to share more about her planet’s history. Anakin watches her fondly, recognizing her passion. “Eventually, we began to borrow words and even flipped our sentence structure to match theirs. If you read Ancient Nubian, it’s practically unrecognizable. But the shift is what helped secure our wealth—the Outer Rim traders found it easier to learn Nubian than many of the more Core-based Mid-Rim dialects and they flocked to our planet. Slowly, we gained a monopoly over the trade routes shipping goods from the Rim to the Core.”

“Fascinating,” Obi-Wan breathes. Padmé smiles and Anakin beams.

“I knew he’d enjoy your little lectures about history and literature,” Anakin says in Nubian. “And, unlike me, I bet he’ll actually have something intelligent and wise to say in response. He’s really smart, Padmé.”

“Oh, hush you, I can already see how wonderful he is. There’s no need to play matchmaker,” Padmé chuckles. She switches back to Coruscanti. “If you’d like, I’m happy to help tutor you. I am sure it'd be so much easier to learn with a native speaker to help."

Obi-Wan’s eyes widen.

"While I appreciate the sentiment, perhaps someone else more... appropriate,” he protests. “I wouldn't want to burden you."

"Nonsense!" she exclaims. "The midwives don't want me taxing myself in my current condition, even though I feel completely fine! If anything, you'll be doing me a favor, helping keep my mind occupied for a few hours each day. We'll start tomorrow morning, bright and early."

“I—I thank you, milady,” Obi-Wan responds quietly. He hesitates, eyes flicking down to her distended belly. “If I am to tutor your child, I will need to be fluent in Nubian long before they are of age.” He phrases it as a statement, but there’s a certain questioning lilt to his voice. Padmé tilts her head, trying to determine what Obi-Wan is actually asking and how best to address it.

“Originally, yes, Anakin did undertake his journey to Jedha in order to find a Jedi tutor for our son,” she begins. Anakin makes a face, recognizing the Coruscanti word for son.

"Daughter," he corrects in Nubian, then switches to Amatakka, his mother tongue. He rarely spoke Huttese, if he could avoid it, and never when with Padmé or close friends. " _Leia_."

Obi-Wan glances warily between them.

"Ignore him, he's convinced that the baby is a girl, but he's not the one carrying it around in his body day in and day out,” Padmé says, with a roll of her eyes. “However, while Anakin always intended to bring a Jedi Knight back to Naboo, it is not necessarily why he chose _you._ I want to reassure you that he is quite enamored.” 

Obi-Wan turns crimson, but in a credit to the famed Jedi serenity, his voice remains perfectly even. 

“Please pardon me,” he says. “I am simply taken aback—there seems to have been a misunderstanding. We had no idea why Anakin had come to Jedha.”

“Oh, I’m afraid that may have been my fault,” Padmé admits. She tucks a stray lock of hair behind her ear. “We have been keeping my pregnancy a closely guarded secret—at first it was because when Anakin left, I was only a few months pregnant and the midwives warned us that many women miscarry in the first trimester. But, then, while he was gone, there was an assassination attempt—common enough for the wife of a warlord and hardly the first I’ve escaped, but one of my handmaidens, Cordé, was mortally injured and I feared that broadcasting my condition would only make me an even more appealing target. I advocated secrecy, but it appears he took my recommendation a little too much to heart. Anakin can be…protective, as I’m sure you’ve realized.”

“Ah.”

“But as I said, Anakin is quite captivated by you, and you shall remain with us regardless of your decision on this matter,” she assures him. “We can always send a party to retrieve another Knight from Jedha.”

Obi-Wans eyes flash, something akin to panic in them before it is hastily smothered and replaced by his usual kind placidity.

“There is no need,” he says, quickly. “I am fully trained and perfectly willing to help.”

Padmé frowns at his word choice, mouth half-open to ask a question, but she is cut off by Anakin, who has shifted position and is snaking a hand around her thigh, sliding her gauzy skirt upwards, and pressing a feather-light kiss to the side of her knee. She glances down and meets Anakin’s eyes, hooded and dark as he stares up at her.

“Ani,” she chides, half-heartedly. There goes her pregnancy enhanced libido yet again.

“I think I’ve been very patient—normally, we’d be starting our second round by now,” he teases. He lolls his neck backwards to rest against the edge of the couch, his voice suddenly changing to something hot and low and crooning. His eyes flick over to Obi-Wan, who is suddenly blushing and determinedly looking anywhere but at them. “I want to watch you two together. Do you want that too?”

Padmé’s heart stutters.

“Yes,” she breathes. “Yes, I want that so badly.”

As one, they stand to their feet, gliding forward and coming to sit on either side of Obi-Wan on the couch. Padmé maintains a respectful distance—with the language barrier, she is not sure of how much of their conversation understood—but Anakin settles himself as close as possible, nearly melding into Obi-Wan’s side.

Obi-Wan startles, looking first to Anakin, then to her, then back again to Anakin, eyes wide and shocked, mouth half-open in a question. Anakin ducks down and engages Obi-Wan’s lips as an answer. Obi-Wan flails a bit, drawing back and looking to Padmé. His eyes are dark with worry, though, not lust, and Padmé smiles in reassurance.

“May I join you?” she asks, hand extended but not quite touching Obi-Wan’s shoulder. He inhales sharply, then slowly, hesitatingly, nods. She leans forward eagerly, draping her arm over his shoulder, in a mirror of Anakin’s position, half on top of Obi-Wan.

Anakin smiles in amusement, gently grabbing the back of Obi-Wan’s head and redirecting his mouth back to Anakin’s own. Anakin does something with his tongue and Obi-Wan just _melts_. Padmé attentively watches every shift of her husband’s mouth—Anakin may have a two-month head start on her, but she is a quick learner and determined to memorize each of Obi-Wan’s pleasure points.

Anakin draws back and Padmé leans forward into the space he left behind. Obi-Wan’s eyes open and he goes comically stiff under her lips. Padmé draws back, unsure, but then Anakin is there, stroking the back of Obi-Wan’s hair and whispering into Obi-Wan’s ear.

“I want to see you, it’s okay, it’s Padmé, you two will be so beautiful together,” he coaxes in Nubian. She doesn’t know how much of his words Obi-Wan comprehends, but in the next second he relaxes and reaches for Padmé, gently bringing her lips back to his. His kisses are different than Anakin’s—confident, but slower and sweeter—and he brushes a hand across the front of her dress, seeking permission. The pads of his fingertips brush against her too-sensitive nipples, a sheer wash of silk the only thing separating skin from skin, and she gasps, thrusting her chest forward in a silent plea for more. Anakin begins to nuzzle at Obi-Wan’s neck as his hands gently, carefully play with her heavy, too sensitive breasts.

Finally, she can take it no longer. She stands abruptly to her feet, quickly lifting her dress over her head—that’s one good thing about the pregnancy, her dresses have become little more than simple shifts, no clasps or elaborate ties to wriggle in and out of every morning and night—and walking towards the bed. She tosses a teasing, sultry look over her shoulder, gratified by the dumbstruck look on both Obi-Wan and Anakin’s faces. She arches an eyebrow.

“Well, are you coming?”

Anakin scrambles to follow and drags Obi-Wan along with him, stripping Obi-Wan of his shirt and rubbing at the front of his pants until the other man is a pliant, whimpering mess. Padmé clambers onto the bed and rises up onto her knees once her boys are close enough so that she can help Obi-Wan onto the bed and position him to her liking. Anakin follows, lounging back against the pillows and positioning himself little ways away on the ginormous bed, so that he has the best possible view of Obi-Wan’s splayed limbs and so that he can cede control to Padmé. She nods her thanks to Anakin and crawls forward, so that she is perched on all fours over Obi-Wan—it’s a little awkward with her belly, but Padmé is nothing if not creative and determined. Obi-Wan raises a hand to her face, tucking a curl behind her ear and she turns her head to the side, pressing a kiss to his palm as a thank you. Then, feeling a little mischievous, she sits herself down and back so that her hot, wet center presses down against his still clothed cock. 

Obi-Wan gasps, head falling back as he bites his lips and Padmé watches appreciatively. He recovers himself quickly enough, but she can’t resist grinding down once more so that she can watch him lose his composure all over again.

To the side, Anakin watches them both with blown-wide eyes, letting out small, low gasps as he works himself with his free hand. 

“He likes it when you tease,” Anakin advises her sagely. “Try licking his nipples and blowing across them.”

Padmé follow his advice and is rewarded with the sight of Obi-Wan twisting and mewling on the bed.

“Help me,” she commands Anakin imperiously. Anakin darts forward, plastering himself against her back as he helps her shove Obi-Wan’s pants down—not very far, just enough to expose his cock, thick and red and slapping against his chiseled abdomen. She sighs in contentment as Anakin helps her shuffle forward, both hands against her hips, rubbing distracting circles ever closer to where she really wants his hand. Obi-Wan tries to help, reaching out a hand towards her mound of curls, but Padmé simply captures both his wrists and stretches out, pushing his arms above his head and against the mattress. “Keep them there,” she instructs, pressing a brief kiss to his lips as she struggles to shape the words in Coruscanti as Anakin’s finger brush perilously close to her clitoris, dipping into her entrance and testing the stretch. She gasps and throws back her head. “Tonight, you just need to lie back and enjoy.”

Obi-Wan frowns and opens his mouth, as if to protest, but then Anakin reaches out and shushes him by placing two fingers upon his lips, still wet from her arousal. He smears the liquid across Obi-Wan’s lips, dipping just the tip of one finger past his lips. Padmé double checks to make sure he’s keeping his hands where instructed, then she darts down and gifts him with another kiss, savoring the taste of herself intermingling with the taste of him. Then she rises back up, wrapping her arms around Anakin.

Anakin helps her rise up, positioning her hips, and then guides her as she sinks back down onto Obi-Wan’s cock, the three of them moaning as one—Padmé had forgotten just how _empty_ she has felt these past five months, how much she needed this. Anakin keeps one hand on her hip, helping her balance, the other brushing against her clitoris and the place where she and Obi-Wan meet.

Padmé drinks in the sight of Obi-Wan’s hands, clenching and unclenching in time to her rolling thrusts. Every muscle in his arms, his pectorals, his hips stands out in stark relief, his eyes hazy and unfocused as his eyes dart between the silk canopy above and Padmé and Anakin, tangled above him. His mouth forms an oh shape, his hips stuttering upwards to meet her.

He is _glorious._

The sight of him, the feel of him, deep and thick, exactly where she wants him, as Anakin’s hand massages her clit, as her Ani gasps and murmurs in her ear about how beautiful, how perfect they are, how lucky he is to have found both of them, how wonderful it is that they’re both his, Obi-Wan below her and Anakin behind her, after being alone for so many months—it’s enough to send her spiraling upwards, in an explosion of sparks behind her eyelids. She clenches her legs tighter around Obi-Wan’s waist, crying out in pleasure as she tips over the edge. As she floats, she can hear Obi-Wan following her over the edge, as his release coats her insides. Anakin the only thing holding her up as she collapses, boneless. She loses track of time for a little bit, but she feels Anakin moving her limbs, cradling her as he gently lowers her to the sheets. He murmurs something to Obi-Wan as he joins them, placing himself squarely between the two of them. There’s a rustling sound as he drags Obi-Wan closer and Padmé snuggles up to him, sighing in contentment, her eyes still closed.

For the first time in five months, she drifts off to sleep, safe in her husband’s arms.

***

The next morning, Padmé wakes with the first rays of dawn, as is her habit. She blinks sleep from her eyes as she stares at the canopy, savoring the moment—it hardly hurts anyone for her to ignore to pause for a moment and just listen to Ani’s heartbeat, strong and steady, under her ear.

She tilts her head upwards to appreciate the lines of her husband’s jaw and cheekbones, slack in his sleep. She smiles to herself and levers herself up with some difficulty (as every movement is difficult these days), so that she can see what Obi-Wan looks like in his repose, beautiful and unencumbered by his Jedi façade. She frowns when she spots the rumpled, empty sheets on the opposite side of Anakin. She swings her legs over and pads across the richly carpeted floor of their chambers, completely unconcerned at the prospect of waking her husband. Ani suffers from nightmares and battle fatigue, but once he is peacefully and fully asleep, nothing short of an invading army can wake him. She snags a thin, blue robe from its customary spot near the bed and shrugs it on—she may be in her private residence, but walking around completely naked does make her feel a little _too_ exposed.

She wanders through several of the east wing rooms, breathing deeply in the early morning air—crisp grass and fresh water. As she pokes her head out onto one of the verandas facing the lake and finally spots an impossibly still figure out of the corner out of one eye. She pauses and takes in the sight of Obi-Wan Kenobi, his hands clasped behind his back as he surveys the early morning light glinting across the mirror-like surface of the lake. A faint breeze ruffles a lock of hair falling over his forehead and Padmé hesitates. She slowly begins to retreat.

“You need not leave,” Obi-Wan says suddenly, his voice breaking the silence like a whip crack. When she turns back, his eyes are still closed.

“I’m sorry,” she apologizes. “I didn’t mean to disturb you, it’s just when I woke and you were gone, I began to worry.”

“I prefer to meditate before dawn,” Obi-Wan explains, inhaling deeply. “It is wonderful to be on planet again—to have natural light on my face and ground beneath my feet for this moment.”

“Ah,” Padmé says. She pauses again—but steels herself and opens her mouth. She can’t wait, can’t put it off—with a full night of sleep and a mind not completely addled by lust she can admit that there was something off about last night. It was amazing, but, especially in the beginning, Obi-Wan had hesitated, balked even. While his passion later in the night would seem to bely his earlier discomfort, she would never forgive herself if she didn’t give voice to her suspicions. “Obi-Wan, if you are not…partial to women, if I somehow disgust you—you can tell us, you know that right? Ani and I would never want to pressure you into anything—I suppose we just assumed…well, I know I’m considered quite the beauty amongst the Noble Houses and many men would relish the chance to share my bed. But you seemed—reluctant.”

Obi-Wan opens his eyes, glancing sharply at her. He evaluates her evenly and she feels a bit awkward, just standing there in her loose morning robe. He’s seen her naked, for Force’s sake, but suddenly the thought that he might see her dark nipples through the thin blue silk is terribly embarrassing. He shifts and gives her a self-deprecating smile.

“You noticed that?” he murmurs. He shakes his head, as if clearing it. “It’s not what you seem to think—I was just taken aback. I had not realized that you both would…desire me. In the Core, most spouses do not share lovers in this manner.”

“Oh! You thought…?”

“Indeed. Well, this certainly explains a lot—you and Anakin seemed so open, so loving, I was confused on why he felt the need to break his vows with me. I suppose that you and he do not really consider a matter of broken vows if I am to be shared?”

“Obi-Wan, stop talking about yourself like that,” Padmé chides. “You’re hardly a child’s toy to be passed back and forth. You are treasured by Anakin, of course, but also by myself, should you permit it.”

“Permit it? You’re saying that if I said no, you’d continue to allow your husband to fuck me behind your back?”

“Well—I. No, not really, not at first, not when you put it like that,” Padmé admits, wincing. “But you're so wonderful and you make Ani so happy. I wouldn't want to lose that just because it might be a little bit difficult to figure out. We could at least try to find a compromise.”

Obi-Wan regards her for a long moment.

"As I said, I was only surprised,” he says, with a shake of his head, turning away. “You’re quite beautiful—intelligent and kind as well. I would be honored to share your bed."

There’s still _something_ in his words, but Padmé supposes that it’s just a matter of readjusting his expectations, getting him accustomed to her. She must work to convince him of her love, that his presence is as much for her benefit’s as Ani’s, and that he can open his heart to her as well.

She pauses, thinking of what she could possibly give that will be able to compete with Anakin’s wild, extravagant gifts. Suddenly, Padmé smiles to herself.

She has just the thing.

***

Later that week, as the servants clear away their dinner plates, Padmé delicately dabs at her lips with her napkin and pushes herself to her feet, the child kicking rhythmically deep in her belly. Perhaps he senses her excitement.

Across the table, Obi-Wan’s blue eyes follow her, sharp and observant. At this point, they have fallen into a routine together, and he knows how Anakin and Padmé like to linger in the dining room, debating the finer points of Galactic politics and history long after Threepio has cleared away the dishes and the sun has set. Well, Padmé debates, Anakin mostly just nods and tries to follow along. Still, Padmé relishes the few times he does challenge her—he brings an outsiders’ perspective and can point out holes in her arguments that her privileged, Mid-Rim tutors never even saw. It allows her to strengthen and shore up those weak spots, which is an invaluable opportunity for any seasoned courtier or politician. She’d explained this once to Anakin, but he had only rolled his eyes and replied that she treated political argument as foreplay—which, well, wasn’t _untrue_ per se. These after dinner debates part of the reason they chose this wide, round room for their dining chamber—the windows are wide and sweeping, capturing every little bit of light refracting off the lake’s surface so that it stays well-lit and inviting, even as day turns to dusk.

She holds out a hand invitingly to Obi-Wan, eyes bright. He stares for a moment, bemused, and she laughs.

“Come, it’s nothing bad, I promise,” she says, lightly, in Nubian. For all his self-deprecating protestations, Obi-Wan is picking up the language quite quickly. It is still difficult for him to articulate his more complex thoughts—and Padmé knows this frustrates him, he is quite articulate and well-spoken in Coruscanti and it seems to pain him to trip and stumble over his words—but he can comprehend the language fairly well while listening or reading and can now engage in basic, slow back-and-forths. She holds dear the look of utter joy, like a sunrise over Varykino’s lake, that broke across Anakin’s face the first time he and Obi-Wan had truly talked, without the help of herself or another translator. Give it another month and she was confident Obi-Wan would be conversationally fluent—Anakin had been right, their husband was a _brilliant_ man.

But despite the progress in his Nubian, Obi-Wan has grown no more comfortable in her presence. Oh, he no longer flinches when she touches him, even initiates most their physical intimacies, but she gets the sense that it is calculated, done just frequently enough to keep her satisfied. As a result, she’s started to say no when he’s offered, and kept a close eye on his interactions with Anakin—she loves her husband, but observant he is not, especially not with a cultural and language barrier in the way. Her doubts are somewhat soothed by the quiet, but obvious fondness that Obi-Wan seems to hold for Anakin—only Ani can make him smile or offer up a bone-dry, sarcastic quip. But even around Anakin, he can be guarded. He’s excellent at talking about everything but himself, all well-meaning questions effortlessly redirected or deliberately misunderstood.

Because of this emotional distance, she’s starting to suspect that Obi-Wan did not necessarily accept Anakin’s proposal out of love, but rather because of a complicated mixture of respect, political necessity, and the recognition of a small spark that could, maybe, potentially, one day, blossom into love. Padmé recognizes the signs all too well—as the pretty, witty, and much sought after second daughter of Nubian royalty, she had always known her duty was to marry and marry well, regardless of her personal feelings on the matter. Before meeting Anakin, the most she had possibly hoped for was an affectionate marriage built on mutual respect. She hasn’t said anything to Ani, can’t without breaking his heart and besides, Obi-Wan seems well on his way to being truly in love with Anakin, so the point will be moot in a few months anyways.

For now, her only focus is making sure that one day soon she too will be allowed into Obi-Wan’s heart, hence her current nervous excitement.

Obi-Wan stands to his feet and takes the proffered hand. Anakin watches them both with a tilted head, hiding his frown in a sip of his deep, red Alderaanian wine.

_Patience,_ Padmé mouths behind Obi-Wan’s back as they exit the elegant dining room. She tucks her hand into his elbow and subtly steers Obi-Wan towards one of the innermost courtyards of Varykino—surrounded on three sides by private bedchambers and by the private family sitting room on the fourth and final side. It was the garden that she had directed Obi-Wan’s attention to that first day.

As they push past gauzy curtains and enter the garden, Padmé is hit with the strong, fragrant scent of Nubian moon lilies in full bloom. They only opened their petals under the light of the moon, but the scent often lingered long into the day.

“Is this about the gardens—”

“Hush,” Padmé replies, with a wave of her hand as she deftly navigates the maze of greenery. “You’ll see soon enough—I don’t want to spoil the surprise.”

“I don’t much like surprises,” Obi-Wan replies.

“Oh, we’ll have to work on that,” Padmé laughs. “Ani and I adore them! When you have the entire Galaxy at your feet, it can be quite hard to find a gift. We both already have all we could possibly want—so the presentation is key.”

“Yes, you Skywalkers do seem to have a way with surprises,” Obi-Wan observes, carefully neutral.

They turn a corner and Padmé uses her hand to push a curtain of heavy willow tree fronds out of the way. Obi-Wan takes a step forward, then pauses.

The moment hangs in the air, crystalized—Padmé swears all the pollen has frozen in the air, all the leaves have stopped their swaying as she holds her breath and waits for Obi-Wan’s reaction.

He exhales sharply and takes a quick series of steps the rest of the way forward, hands rising up to clutch at his throat. He stares at Padmé’s gift, reverence in his eyes. He flicks his eyes over to her for a brief second, but then immediately returns his gaze to the small, polished wood statue of a convor that Padmé had commissioned for the garden, as if he cannot look away for too long.

It is a bird native to Jedha, one that Padmé has only ever seen in statues and paintings. But the statue was an excellent likeness, Ahsoka had assured her, just like the birds they had spotted while on planet. More importantly, it looks sufficiently like the one that Padmé remembers Master Jinn owning, all those years ago. She still remembers the feeling of utter serenity that Master Jinn exuded whenever he gazed at that statue—she wants Obi-Wan to feel that same peace and contentment.

In the present, Obi-Wan bows his head briefly and murmurs something to himself, in that musical Jedi language Padmé does not understand, breaking her reverie. She watches silently, waiting for him to finish. When he raises his head again, she finally speaks.

“It is a gift,” she tells him, “so that you might have somewhere to worship in peace. I made sure to place it close to our chambers, so that you do not have to journey so far for your morning meditations.”

“I—I do not know how I can possibly thank you,” Obi-Wan says, finally. His voice is choked, cracking. “When I left Jedha I thought I would never see one again.”

“No thanks are necessary,” Padmé insists, warmth blooming in her heart at Obi-Wan’s obvious joy. She touches a hand to his shoulder and counts it a victory when he leans into the touch for once. “I hope you did not think we expected you to hide away your beliefs.”

“I—well. Yes,” Obi-Wan admits, chagrined. “Anakin’s men so clearly seemed dismissive of our traditions when they came to Jedha and Anakin seemed so uncomfortable whenever he caught me in prayer.”

“Ah, that’s just Mandalorians,” Padmé says, shaking her head. “They don’t believe in _jetii_ magic, as they call it—I’ll talk to Ahsoka, she’ll take care of that. And Anakin was probably more concerned with making sure he didn’t disturb you. His people don’t normally pray, not in the way you or I would understand it, and he still isn’t all that used to it, even after being married to me these past three years.”

“You pray?”

“Yes,” Padmé gestures beyond the willow tree, towards the center of the garden, where a statue of Shiraya, her wings spread resplendently behind her as she raises her half-moon symbol in triumphant victory stands. The statue is surrounded by the small votives and offerings of food that Padmé left there every week. Next to the large, monotone sculpture is a smaller, more colorful sculpture of a man, one hand removing a blindfold as he holds a scale in the opposite hand. “That is Shiraya, the moon goddess and protector of my planet. And next to her is Luk, patron saint of justice and of my family, the royal house of Naberrie. Some say he is one of the founders of our line, though most historians believe that’s probably just a myth perpetuated by House Naberrie to cement our ties to the church. But he is certainly the source of our house motto: ‘justice is not blind.’ Luk was an early disciple of Shiraya’s teachings and was mercilessly persecuted by the pagan peoples of Naboo—he was eventually martyred for his beliefs, tried and sentenced to die by a rigged jury and corrupt judge. They tossed him in a cell and left him there to die, with no food or water, but while he was there, he penned one of the single most transcendent religious and legal texts in all of pre-Reform Naboo—I pray to him for guidance and to Shiraya for protection in all matters.”

A long pause.

“The convor is One with the Force, in a way we sometimes struggle to emulate,” Obi-Wan offers finally, hesitantly. “We do not always understand their connection to the Force, but where they fly free and high, we know we are home.”

“Then this is perfect,” Padmé declares. “For this is your home now and I want you to know that, to _feel_ that in your heart. Thank you for sharing.”

“No, no, thank you, for listening,” Obi-Wan replies fervently.

“Of course.” She waits a beat, then lays a hand over her stomach. “I hope that when the little one arrives, you will share these stories with him as well. He should be well versed in all of our stories and deities.”

Obi-Wan looks absolutely speechless, flabbergasted, and Padmé is half afraid she said the wrong thing. But then Obi-Wan reaches out and lays a hand over hers.

“I would be honored, if that is what you wish,” he says, quietly. Padmé nods once and withdraws—she thinks she has pushed Obi-Wan far enough for now.

“I’ll leave you to it, then,” she says, moving backwards to the wide veranda of the master bedroom. Her husband waits there, leaning languidly against the marble column. Together they turn and watch Obi-Wan, head bent in reverence over his statue. Padmé has chosen the location of the statue with great care—hidden from most other vantage points for privacy, but still perfectly visible from their bedroom. Padmé wants to be able to lift her head from her sheets each morning and see both of her boys.

“He likes your gift,” Anakin observes. Suddenly, he frowns. “He never wears mine.”

Padmé glances over to him, raising an eyebrow.

“You mean that gold necklace you gave him for the wedding?” she clarifies. Anakin nods and she reaches out to tuck a stray lock of curled hair behind his ear and soothe at his pout with her finger. “Oh, Ani. Jedi don’t wear that sort of thing.”

“What? No! I asked, Jedi wear gold,” Anakin insists. 

“Yes, but it’s always these fine, subtle gold chains and never with gems of any sort. The necklace you gave him is…definitely not that. I think he might appreciate something a little more personal instead.”

“But I picked it out myself!”

“Yes, Ani, I know. But you always jump straight to the most expensive gifts you can find, regardless of taste or fashion or sense,” Padmé says fondly. She plucks at the japor snippet that Ani had gifted to her many years earlier and holds it up to catch his eye. “And yet, out of all the expensive teas and marble statues and enormous jewels you’ve gotten me, _this_ remains my most treasured gift.”

“I—” Anakin swallows, allows his shoulders to droop. “It’s just that you and Obi-Wan are so beautiful and polished and well-mannered…I just—I just want you two to have everything you deserve.”

“What we deserve, what we _want_ is you, Ani,” Padmé replies with a shake of her head. She gentles her tone. “If you want, I’m sure I can dig up some old paintings of the Jedi for you to study. Perhaps, if you fashioned your own version of the traditional necklaces for him, something handmade, but also more in line with his tastes, he might wear it more often.”

"You think so?" Anakin perks up immediately, ever eager to please. Padmé can only laugh.

***

Anakin waits long enough that Padmé had begun to think he had forgotten her advice. He finally makes his move, nearly a full month later. Her body has swelled to impossibly greater proportions, which makes her extremely hot and grumpy and disinclined to do anything but lie about, completely naked. She reclines on the couch in just such a state, her feet in Obi-Wan’s lap as he courteously, absentmindedly massages her swollen ankles with one hand. The other hand is holding a book mere centimeters from his nose, which is, of course consuming all of his attention.

Padmé has the uncharitable thought that she must be as horrendously ugly as she fears if the sight of her naked like this seems to do absolutely nothing for Obi-Wan. Their physical and emotional relationship has improved by leaps and bounds this past month—ever since she had gifted him the convor statue, they have often spent many afternoons waiting for Anakin to return by trading stories of their people’s various religious figures and traditions, marveling at the similarities, even with their planets so many light years apart, and debating the differences. It was after one of these long afternoons that Obi-Wan had first initiated a syrupy sweet kiss and make-out session that had curled Padmé’s toes and made her feel like a giddy teenager again. More importantly, it seemed to her as if Obi-Wan had been equally as affected by the kiss—that he truly wanted her too. The resulting sex, much to Anakin’s voyeuristic pleasure, has been amazing.

The doors swing open and they both look up.

Anakin strides in, a black velvet box secured in his grip. An air of nervous anticipation surrounds him. He pecks Padmé’s and Obi-Wan’s cheeks in greeting, then comes to stand in front of Obi-Wan. He holds out the box.

Obi-Wan raises an eyebrow.

“What is this?”

“A gift,” Anakin replies earnestly. Obi-Wan accepts the velvet box with a doubtful cast to his face.

“More jewelry? I thought we had agreed that I would be allowed to select my own accessories from now on,” he says wryly. Anakin makes a face and turns a bright pink.

“Just open it,” he insists. Obi-Wan complies, raising the lid. He looks down and freezes, breath catching. Padmé leans forward, curiosity burning bright—this certainly explains why Anakin had been disappearing to his workshop for long stretches of time and she’s excited to see the fruits of his labor.

Carefully arranged over the velvet pillow are a set of two, long necklace chains—impossibly delicate, as if they might snap at any moment. Obi-Wan shifts his hold on the box, bringing one hand down to hover over the gold necklaces, almost but not quite touching, as if he is afraid he will break them. As he repositions his hands, the necklaces shift and catch the light, a flash of iridescence shooting through the gold links. Padmé’s eyes widen and Obi-Wan seems speechless. Anakin shifts awkwardly from foot to foot.

“I heard that the Jedi consider kyber crystal to be sacred,” he explains, flexing his mechno-hand against the opposite, flesh forearm. “I purchased a small quantity, ground it down, and added it to the gold in the smelting furnace.”

“You made this yourself?” Obi-Wan asks, dumbly.

“Ah, yes. I was a mechanic on Tatooine, before…well. We used to have to melt durasteel and reform it to shape if we didn’t have a particular part we needed. Turns out it’s a similar process—I had one of the local smiths walk me through it just to make sure. I know it doesn’t look like normal gold, but I can always remake them without the added kyber, if you want.”

“No, no need to remake them,” Obi-Wan says. “They’re _beautiful_.”

“Really? You like them? Do you think you’ll want to wear them?” Anakin asks, the words spilling out quickly. In response, Obi-Wan shifts his body, gently displacing Padmé’s feet, so that he can stand up and move towards the large floor to ceiling mirror in the room.

“Could you help me put them on?” he says. “I can show you how to pin them properly.”

Anakin nearly stumbles over his feet in his rush to comply. Under Obi-Wan’s gentle guidance, he drapes one end of chain over Obi-Wan’s left shoulder, pinned just behind the curve of his deltoid, then draped up and over and pinned under the opposite armpit. The second chain goes across the front, gleaming beautifully against the shadows of Obi-Wan’s collarbones. Anakin drops a kiss to the area where the nobs of Obi-Wan’s spine give way to the smooth lines of his neck and Padmé’s heart swells.

Obi-Wan stares at himself in the mirror, tracing lightly over the chains.

Suddenly, he turns around, a fierce furrow in his brow. Anakin steps back hurriedly.

“Why am I here? Truly?” he asks. Padmé and Anakin glance towards each other. Anakin makes big, panicky doe eyes at his wife, begging her wordlessly to take charge of the conversation. Padmé sighs and turns back to Obi-Wan.

“All those months ago, Anakin travelled to Jedha with the goal of securing a Jedi Knight for our household—to help raise and teach our child.”

“I know this.”

“Yes, well, we are very happy you have agreed to tutor our son," Padme continues. "But more than just simple tutoring, it's very important to us, to Ani in particular, that this child receive the very best Core World education. That you be a visible part of our household so that everyone knows that you were instrumental in helping raise this child."

"I don't mean to be rude, but why?" Obi-Wan asks. His tone is bland, but the words are not. “Jedi Knights are valued members of a Noble house, of course, but we generally prefer to stay in the background—safely out of the way of your games and politics.”

Padmé hesitates.

“Because the nobles will never accept me,” Anakin interjects, his voice even. Obi-Wan opens his mouth to object, but Anakin only waves a hand. “It does not matter to them how many planets or trade routes I control, how many people I help, or whatever I call myself—to them, I’ll always be just another Outer Rim warlord. I’ll never have their respect, their loyalty.”

“I’m sure that your rather sizable army and a few rounds of aggressive negotiations will quickly quiet any such thoughts.”

"Armies can only help you win a throne, not keep it,” Padmé replies with a shake of her head. “If we want to hold the Core, we’ll need the support of the noble houses. And that fealty might be just a little more genuine if they were pledging themselves to someone else, someone raised in their world,” Padmé finishes, eyes flickering over Obi-Wan’s opaque face for a hint of a reaction. “A child, borne by a blue-blooded Nubian princess and tutored in history, comportment, and politics by the finest Jedi Knight in the galaxy. We want that child—our child—to sit on the greatest throne this Galaxy has seen in a millennium.”

There’s a long silence.

"You're building an empire," Obi-Wan finishes quietly. 

Padmé nods silently.

“ _Our_ Empire,” Anakin clarifies. “All that I am, all that I fight for, all that I conquer, all that I earn is yours, Obi-Wan. Yours and Padmé’s and this child’s.”

Obi-Wan inhales sharply and stares at both of them, some unnamable emotion roiling deep in his eyes.

“May I—I’m feeling rather tired and would like to retire early,” Obi-Wan says finally, neutrally.

“Tired?” Anakin says, worry etched in the clench of his jaw. “Are you okay? Shall I call for the healer—” Padmé cuts him off with a gentle hand on his shoulder.

“Of course, Obi-Wan. Why don’t you take the bed in the spare room, that way Ani and I will not disturb you,” she says, graciously. Obi-Wan nods stiffly as he leaves the room. Anakin immediately turns to Padmé, indignation flaring bright in his eyes.

“Why did you let him leave?” he demands. Padmé turns and wraps both arms around him, as if they are dancing. His hands fall to her waist, clenching in frustration. “He was clearly unconvinced. What if…what if he says no?”

“He just needs some time,” Padmé assures him, with a confidence she doesn’t feel. “He’s uncomfortable, scared, Ani—the Jedi have been explicitly neutral for at least two millennia, it’s part of the reason they are so well respected amongst all the families and why I first feared that no Knight would agree to our plans if we told them outright. If he were to stand with us, he will be breaking hundreds of years of tradition and placing himself in a very public role that he never asked for or wanted. He has reason enough to be fearful—we must give him the time and space he needs to process this.”

“But what if he decides—”

“But nothing, Ani. He clearly cares very deeply for you and I—and we for him. If that is what he wants, we will simply need to restructure our plans.”

“It will make things more difficult,” Anakin acknowledges, leaning his forehead against hers, the corners of his eyes unhappy, “but no throne is worth sacrificing him.” 

“Precisely. I know you don’t like the thought of keeping one of your spouses hidden from the public, but if it were for Obi-Wan’s desire for privacy, rather than shame, surely your people, your gods would understand that?”

“I would have to consult the grandmothers. But even if they disagree—I will follow Obi-Wan’s lead. I just want him safe and happy.”

“We’ll figure something out,” Padmé promises. She strokes a hand up and down his arm.

“But what if—what if he decides that neither option is too his liking?” Anakin ventures, panic edging his tone as he gives voice to Padmé’s very worst fears, the ones she has very consciously not been trying to formulate, even in the privacy of her own mind. “What if he returns to Jedha?”

“All of this speculation is pointless,” she says, brusquely. “He may yet agree with our plans. Come, let us go to sleep and put these thoughts from our minds. Worrying does us no good at this point.”

“Yes, of course, to sleep,” Anakin echoes.

Neither of them sleeps a wink, clutching each other tight in suddenly too-large, too empty space of their bed.

***

The next morning, Obi-Wan joins Padmé for their usual Nubian lessons as if nothing has changed. As he walks into the public sitting room—they have always used the public rooms for his lessons, an attempt by Padmé to try and create a buffer in those early days, so he would not feel pressured to intimacy— his cream robes fluttering and not a single auburn hair out of place, she allows herself to breathe out a sigh of relief—she and Ani had agreed not to press Obi-Wan any further, though of course they were both on tenterhooks. Anakin had decided to join a patrol to the edges of Varykino, to give him something to do with his nervous energy, but of course Padmé cannot join him. She does not wish to deny her husband his escape, but she does resent the ease with which he can physically run away from their problems.

Obi-Wan settles into his customary chair, a steaming cup of tea in his hands. He blows on it. He waits a minute, then two, then three, before finally speaking up.

“I believe we were discussing traditional Nubian art history and working on my atrocious pronunciation?” he says mildly.

“Ah, yes, of course,” Padmé says, just relieved to hear his voice again. She fidgets with her hands and casts her mind back to yesterday morning, which seems a lifetime ago. “I believe we had just gotten to Neo-Cambrian?”

“Yes, of course, León and his hedonistic followers,” he prompts gently. The rest of the lesson is more of the same—the conversation moving in fits and starts as Obi-Wan prompts a topic, Padmé attempts to follow through, and then loses the train of her thought a few minutes later, strangely restless.

Eventually, Obi-Wan takes pity on her.

“Would you like a turn about the gardens?” he asks, half an hour in. She huffs out a breath, a chagrined smile stealing across her face.

“I wasn’t hiding it very well, was I?”

“Hmm, no not really,” Obi-Wan replies, sounding amused more than anything else. He extends an arm and Padmé rises to her feet, far less gracefully then she would have liked. Dormé rises from her own seat and follows a respectful distance behind as they move towards the main, central courtyard of Varykino—far bigger and grander than any of the private Easy Wing courtyards.

Padmé tries to be patient, promising herself not to speak on the matter unless Obi-Wan raises the issue first but just a few minutes in and she can hardly take it anymore.

“Please, Obi-Wan, give me at least a hint of what is going through your mind,” she pleads. “I know that we sprung the idea on you rather suddenly—we wanted to take our time, allow you to grow into your life and your place here before we upended everything again, but I’m afraid we just made everything worse. But if you let us know what you are thinking, I know we can figure it all out.”

“Figure it out?” Obi-Wan murmurs. A wry, distant smile fixes itself upon his face. “What could there possibly be to figure out? I’m going to help you, of course I am. Afterall, wasn’t that the whole point of _this_?” He gestures to the space between them, as if Padmé will have any idea what he means. She opens, then closes her mouth. “And Force help me, but it worked.”

“Obi-Wan, I don’t understand—” Padmé begins, alarmed, certain that there’s been some terrible miscommunication. She’s interrupted by a sharp cramp that sends her doubling over and clutching at Obi-Wan’s arms. When she recovers, she and Obi-Wan glance first at each other, then to the gush of liquid forming at Padmé’s feet.

“Padmé, I do believe you’re going into labor,” Obi-Wan says, calmly.

Her eyes go wide and terrified.

“What, no, I can’t be!” she cries. “It’s too early! I still have—we still have a whole five weeks!”

“Well, apparently, no one told the baby that,” Obi-Wan responds evenly, bending down and scooping Padmé into his arms. He turns to Dormé. “Run ahead, warn the midwives to prepare themselves. Have the servants change the sheets in the bedchamber and start boiling water. And send someone to fetch Master Skywalker from his patrol.” Dormé’s face turns white, but she turns on her heel and sprints away. Padmé begins to cry.

“I can’t lose the baby, I can’t lose him,” she sobs, as Obi-Wan tries fruitlessly to soothe her, moving slowly but surely back to the east wing.

“A month early is not unheard of,” Obi-Wan says.

“The baby—”

“Is the child of Padmé Amidala and Anakin Skywalker,” he interrupts her, voice firm, unflappable. “They are just a little impatient to see the world, which is only to be expected given their parents. And because they are your child, they will be a fighter, just like you. You both will be absolutely fine.”

They sweep into the main bedroom, a host of midwives worriedly fluttering about, awaiting their arrival. When they see Padmé’s state, their face turn grim—perhaps they had assumed that Obi-Wan and Padmé were overreacting, that as a man and a first time mother, they had misunderstood what was happening. For all Obi-Wan’s reassurances, the midwives’ whispers and urgent commands immediately send Padmé’s heart plummeting. Obi-Wan is right, a month early is hardly unheard of, but the babies are often small, struggling to breathe and stay warm.

Obi-Wan deposits her gently onto the fresh sheets. He goes to move away, but Padmé clenches her hand against his and pulls him back. He sits on the edge of the bed without hesitation, murmuring reassurances to her and smoothing her hair back from her face as time passes and the wait begins. She tries so hard to only focus on his voice, the poems he speaks to distract her, rather than the pain of her contractions, getting closer and closer together, or the worried muttering of the midwives.

“The mothers usually survive—”

“She’s only partially dilated, we have a while to go—Master Skywalker may arrive in time to meet the child.”

“She’s young and healthy, there’s no reason to think she won’t be able to bear another child—"

“Be quiet,” Obi-Wan says suddenly, his voice calm but as cutting as a finely sharpened blade. He takes a cool, wet cloth from Dormé and pats it across Padmé’s brow. “She can hear you, you know.”

The tension in the room only grows in the ensuing silence.

The door flies open and Padmé raises her head weakly as Anakin flies inside, robes flying all around him as he races to her side. His face is etched with terror.

“What happened?” he demands of the nearest midwife. She opens her mouth, but Obi-Wan interrupts, reaching an arm over Padmé and grasping Anakin’s forearm tightly.

“Peace, Anakin,” he says, “Padmé needs your support right now.”

“But, it’s too early! Will she be okay?”

“This isn’t the Outer Rim, Ani,” Padmé says, breathless after the latest contraction. She knows the source of his worry all too well. “And I have access to the best midwives in the Galaxy, I’ll be fine. It’s…it’s not me I’m worried about.”

“You’ll both get the chance to hold the baby in your arms soon enough,” Obi-Wan declares, as if he can simply make a thing so through sheer force of will.

“Babies,” one of the midwives chimes in.

As one, Obi-Wan, Anakin, and Padmé turn to stare, mutely blinking at her.

“What—did you just…?”

“It appears that there is a second child,” she continues, her hands firmly pressing into Padmé’s distended stomach. “We missed them in the previous exams, the naughty little thing hiding behind its sibling, but they must have shifted when your waters broke. Congratulations, you’re carrying twins.”

Padmé begins to cry in earnest, joy and fear and pain roiling through her heart.

“This is good news,” the midwife rushes to reassure her. “It explains the extra weight gain and the early birth—few twins are ever carried to full term. There is still some risk and the babies will likely be quite small, but we no longer have to wonder and worry what prompted the early labor.” 

“Twins? Twins!” Padmé laughs through her tears. “You never could do anything halfway, Ani.”

The next few hours are a blur of sweat and pain, Obi-Wan and Anakin’s hands warm in hers. She doesn’t know how they stand it—she feels like she’s about to break their hands—but they are unflinching, good-natured, and encouraging. Then, she hears a high-pitched mewling and Obi-Wan shuffles backward, out of the way, as the midwife places a small, warm body against her chest, smearing bloody bodily fluids against Padmé’s skin.

“A son,” the midwife declares and Padmé’s heart swells.

“My little Luke,” she murmurs, the odd feeling of fluttering pulse against her skin. She laughs. “It’s a boy—I told you so!”

Anakin doesn’t seem the least bit put out, a wide, unfettered smile blooming across his face. Another contraction hits and Padmé grunts weakly. The midwife sweeps Luke out of her arms, off to clean and weigh him as her fellow midwives exhort Padmé to push once more, their hands gently supporting the baby’s neck. Their second child comes into the world with a squalling wail that immediately drowns out Luke’s gentle whining.

“A daughter,” the midwife declares, holding her in the air and wincing at a particularly loud screech. “Well, her lungs certainly seem to be in good working order.”

“We were both right!” Anakin exclaims, holding his arms out so that the midwife can secure the child in his embrace. “Hello, Leia.”

Everyone else bustles around helping Padmé push out the afterbirth and she feels as if she has chased a hundred shaaks across the fields of Varykino—totally exhausted yet strangely exhilarated. The same midwife from before returns, a freshly cleaned, wailing Luke in her hands. She looks expectantly to Padmé, but she is absolutely drained of energy and she can’t help but worry that in her exhaustion, her arms will give out and drop this precious bundle. Anakin is still enraptured by Leia, playing with her little toes, and so, Padmé shakes her head and gestures to Obi-Wan, who has positioned himself far, far away.

The midwife inclines her head and changes direction, carefully depositing Luke in Obi-Wan’s arms. The other woman pauses, taking a moment to reposition Obi-Wan’s hands, but then she steps back and leaves them alone so that she can continue in her duties.

Obi-Wan clutches little Luke to his chest, wonder and terror alike warring in his eyes as he supports the baby's head. Luke continues to wail and gently, soothingly Obi-Wan smooths a finger across his downy head. Luke immediately quiets. They look at each other, for a long, frozen moment, each blinking and entranced.

Then Luke snuffles, shivers, and Obi-Wan hurries to secure the linen blanket, fierce protectiveness in the slant of his eyebrows, the set of his jaw.

And this is the moment when Padmé knows that Obi-Wan is truly theirs, forevermore. He is bound to them, more surely than any oath or forged chain.

Despite her exhaustion, Padmé smiles in triumph.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, I love your kudos, comment, and support--let me know what you think.

**Author's Note:**

> Trigger warning: Obi-Wan's exact relationship to Anakin is kinda murky and while he frames it as consent, it's definitely under duress since he believes his people will be punished if he does not comply. Be forewarned that this is referenced frequently and explicitly throughout this entire work--it's kinda central to the plot too, so I won't be tagging it in each chapter beyond this one or offering skip points. If what I described triggers you, highly recommend you skip this fic entirely, sorry! 
> 
> Really excited to get your feedback--like it, love it, hate it, lemme know!


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